


Save it for a Rainy Day

by DenmarkStreetGutterClub



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M, First Kiss, Fluff and Smut, Power Outage, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:48:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29181285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DenmarkStreetGutterClub/pseuds/DenmarkStreetGutterClub
Summary: A power cut forces Robin and Strike to face their feelings.
Relationships: Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Comments: 25
Kudos: 108





	1. Chapter 1

It was miserable outside. Robin wrapped her cold fingers around the mug of tea, grateful for the warmth seeping into her hands. Rain lashed against the office window, and she watched people pass by on the pavement below; heads down and shoulders hunched, coat edges warping to bodies in the furious wind. 

She checked her watch, even though she already knew the time. Strike was normally quite punctual, although of course they both worked odd hours. Just because he said he’d be back by six didn’t mean he had to be. Maybe the mark had been unpredictable. Maybe he’d stopped to pick up food. Maybe he’d stopped by the pub to warm up and dry off.

 _It’s not as if he owes you any explanation for what he does with his Friday evening_ , she reminded herself sternly. As if proving the point, she gave herself a little shake, swiveled back to her computer, and began typing up a client file.

Unbidden, the image of Strike in a pub came to her, easing off his coat from his large frame, throwing that easy grin of his to the attractive dark-haired server - here Robin’s imagination readily supplied her with a glamorous, Lorelei look alike - as he sat down, ready for a Friday night on the pull.

She cleared her throat, blinked, and took a purposeful sip of tea.  
In the past few months, the complicated emotions that had always surrounded Robin’s view of Strike had developed into full-blown, very intense feelings. The only thing to do, she had decided, was to wait it out.

It wasn’t working.

Suddenly, she heard his heavy, uneven tread on the stairs. Relief flooded her, followed quickly by frustration at herself. She was a grown woman, and absolutely capable of control.

Robin was industriously tapping away at her keyboard, wrestling with tangled emotions, when Strike swung the door open, a takeaway bag in hand. His dark hair was damp, his collar turned up high. He gave her a grin that exactly matched the one she had just been imagining, and her heart swelled. She unsuccessfully tried to quell a surge of affection.

“I’ve brought enough for the proverbial army.” Strike placed the bag on the floor and began to unbutton his coat. “Wasn’t sure if you’d be here or not.”

Robin nodded coolly, desperately trying to will away the heat rushing to her cheeks. She turned to study the case file on her desk, the words swimming together into nonsense, vaguely aware of Strike shuffling around in the kitchen.

She jumped as a large hand appeared in her vision, putting a dish in front of her.

Robin looked up to see Strike running a hand through his wet hair.

“Interesting reading?” He had a wry look on his face.

Robin tried not to stare at the tiny raindrops caught sparkling in his eyelashes, or the slightly damp curls of chest hair she could see at his open collar.

She straightened her spine.

“Yes, as it happens.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly not fooled, but turned with his own dish towards his office.

She watched him walk heavily the other way, embarrassment warring with a slight sense of guilt, and blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

“You’re late.”

Strike faced her again. He looked at his watch, then back at her with an air of slight confusion.

“It appears I am.”

Robin could have easily bit her own tongue. How many times had both of them been required to change their hours at the last minute? Of all the things she could have said, that’s what she had landed on? She stood abruptly, trying to laugh.

“Not that I care!” 

His eyebrows climbed high again. She stopped, hearing the tone of her own voice, and changed direction.

“I mean, I _care_ , of course. About where you are for work, and everything. But only for work. What you do on your own time...“

Strike had put his dish back down on her desk. He was studying her, eyes dancing. 

He was amused, she was making a fool of herself, and suddenly, she couldn’t stand his kind, wry, expression.

“I only meant you said you’d be back at six and I was worried your leg had given you trouble,” she said, in a prim, rushed, jumble, and Strike grinned, which maddened her further.

“So you _do_ care.”

It was his teasing tone, the mild ease with which he was currently navigating this horrendous exchange, that made her cross her arms, unsure whether she wanted to laugh or cry.

He held up his hands, still grinning.

“I just came in to have dinner.”

Robin felt ridiculous, and her heart felt painfully exposed. She chuckled gamely, but it came out forced.

“God, yes. I’m sorry. Going a bit mental with all this file paperwork.”

He was still watching her. She wished he would stop; his expression was entirely too knowing.

“Sounds as if it’s time for a break then, yeah?” he merely said, gesturing at the plate of food he had brought over.

She nodded. 

“Yeah.” 

Robin watched as her partner gave her a last, piercing look, then turned away, making his way back to the inner office with his own dinner, limping slightly. She knew the rainy weather changed the atmospheric pressure; it made his limb ache, and her heart gave a painful squeeze of sympathy.

She went to the kitchen, where he’d left tea brewing. She made him a cup, then took it to him in his office, determined to keep things light and professional.

Strike was shirtless.

He looked up, a fresh, dry shirt in one hand, his rain-soaked one a sodden heap on his desk. 

Robin stared.

Stared at the massive expanse of his chest, stared at his powerful arms and broad shoulders, and stared at his chest hair, her gaze following it down as it tapered to a trail beneath his trousers.

They were both frozen, looking at each other. 

“I’ve brought tea,” Robin said, a bit faintly.

Strike reached out for it, then, as they both stared at his bare arm, stopped.

“I’ll get dressed properly, shall I?” he grinned, in an attempt to cover the moment.

“Oh, no, please don’t bother.”

Strike froze again, and Robin cringed.

“I only mean, I’ll just leave this here, and get out of your way, lots of work to do-” she said, hastily placing the mug on his desk. She strode purposefully from the office as if the waiting paperwork was a matter of life or death.

In the kitchen, she poured herself some tea, then stood with her hands braced against the counter.

“Pull it together,” she scolded herself. “Pull it _bloody together_.”

“Robin.”

She turned around. Strike, fully clothed, thank goodness, was leaning against the wall, studying her. 

She smiled brightly at him. His dark brows drew together. 

“Is there - anything you need to talk about? Anything I should know?”

_Only that I’m in love with you. Have been for years, probably. I came to this realization a few weeks ago, so fancy shagging me on that desk? That should sort me._

The image of herself on the edge of the desk as Strike drove powerfully into her sent a wave of full-body heat from her head to her toes. She tucked her hair behind her ear, and cleared her throat.

“I know I’m being a bit awkward. Just a long day.”

Strike opened his mouth, then appeared to change his mind, and closed it. 

There was a whooshing, surging noise, a loud buzz, and the lights promptly went out. Robin hadn’t realized how dark it had grown; Strike’s form had become all shadow as he went over to the window, looking out at the street. 

“Not just us, the whole street’s dark, and beyond. Looks like a power cut.”

“I’ll get the candles,” said Robin briskly, immensely glad for a task to focus on, however small. “And there's a torch in the bottom left drawer of your desk…”

She began rummaging in the drawer she was certain she had placed a few plain, large candles years ago. She located one, and he made his way over to, a beam of light issuing from a torch in his hand.  
She held up a candle triumphantly, then put it down on the counter, close to him.

“Aren’t you glad I’m so organized?”

“You’re a bloody marvel, as usual.” 

She was glad for the shadows; they hid her pleased blush. 

There was a hiss of a match, then a flare as Strike held the flame to the candle. It caught, and flickering light broke up the dark kitchen.

“Well!” declared Robin, putting her hands on her hips. “We’ve got light, we’re warm and dry, we’re all set.” She smiled at him.

“We’ve even got food, and that would’ve been my main concern,” he grinned. 

“Typical,” she teased. 

“Actually,” he said, the smile fading from his face. He turned to face her, and the dancing light illuminated his serious expression. He took a step closer.

“There’s just one more thing I’ve been meaning to do.”

Robin’s pulse picked up pace. She didn’t look away, and he took another step. Then another. 

Strike always maneuvered himself around the office carefully; he never used his size for intimidation or power; but standing directly in front of her, with his broad shoulders, and his towering height, Robin was aware, on a whole new level, of just how _big_ a man Cormoran Strike was.

He hadn’t looked away either; his dark eyes were still holding hers. 

Robin could feel the heat of his body. She caught trace scents of rain, smoke, and the clean bite of mint.

“What is it?” she asked, and it came out as a whisper.

Robin’s breath caught as he reached out and rested a large hand gently at her waist. She could feel the warmth of it through her blouse. 

She would never be able to say, after, whether it was her closing the last bit of distance between them by pressing herself against him, or if he had pulled her closer with some gentle pressure from his hand. 

Maybe it had been both. 

What she did remember, just before he bent his head, were the words he uttered.

“Kiss you.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barclay and his timing. The stuff of legend.

Strike was kissing her. Holy shit, Strike was _kissing her_.

Beneath Robin’s shock lay the realization of the kiss itself: his lips a reverent, lingering press against hers. He was being soft, and careful; she could sense his restraint, his hesitation. But her heart was beating fast, and her head was spinning with the turn of events, so the only thing that she could really process was one demanding thought.

_More._

She opened her mouth slightly, letting the tip of her tongue touch his. She felt his deep breath, and then he brought his hand up from her waist, traveling the side of her body, then stroking down again to her back, pulling her tight against him. He deepened the kiss, and she welcomed it, his tongue meeting hers as she put her hands on his chest, where she could feel his heart thundering beneath her fingertips. 

He was kissing her leisurely, and Robin let her fingers explore him, first trailing down his body, then going up and indulging a long-held wish of burying them in his dark hair. He reacted; he pulled her even closer, his tongue making smooth, deep glides now, and Robin felt the thrilling, undeniable hardness of his erection against her body.

Intoxicated with delight and sensation, she let her hands smooth down his body, and palmed him through the fabric. He made a strangled noise in the back of his throat, and Robin drew back. 

“Do you want me to slow down?” she panted, trying for some kind of control but unable to stop her hands from undoing the button on his trousers. 

“Like hell I do,” he chuckled, and Robin’s laugh was cut off as he pulled her in for another, crushing kiss. They were gaining rhythm and heat now; her initial joy was shifting swiftly into pure pleasure. A warm ache was building between her legs, growing heavy and demanding. Her hands flew up and clutched his shirt, and she rubbed herself against his cock. 

They both moaned at the contact, and Strike lifted a large hand and brought it gently up, cupping a breast. Robin gasped, throwing her head back, and he took the opportunity to rain a trail of kisses from her jaw downwards, his tongue easing her collar aside, his stubble beautifully rough against her skin. 

“Oh God,” she breathed, as he bit gently at the juncture of her neck and shoulder, then sucked the skin as his fingers unhooked a few buttons on her blouse.

“Do _you_ want me to slow down?” he murmured against her skin, then lifted his head, his eyes finding hers in the candlelight. “We’re going fast and hard, here.” 

The heavy, aching need at her core was overriding most of her thought.

“I think the past few years of pining means we've been on a pretty slow burn, actually,” she teased.

He grinned, and the shadows gave it a predatory edge. The ache between her legs gave a pleasurable throb in response.

“A slow burn, eh?” His thumb brushed lazily back and forth across her nipple, and she could only grind against his cock in eager answer.

“I’m going to light you up,” he rasped, his voice rough with promise, and he leaned down, taking a peaked nipple gently in his mouth, sucking. Robin moaned, pushing herself into his mouth, bucking her hips against him.

“Is that you, Strike?” Barclay’s cheerful voice carried up the stairs. “I can see some light - is that you then, Robin?”

Strike and Robin stilled. 

“Fucking Barclay, I’m going to throttle him and his fucking timing,” Strike growled, looking so grumpy that Robin laughed. She hastily began to rebutton her blouse, and Strike closed his eyes, taking a step back and looking tortured. 

“What the hell is he doing at the office?” he mumbled.

“He was supposed to follow Mr. Runaround tonight, but I imagine he can’t, due to the power cut. The office is closest to where his stakeout was,” sighed Robin, running her hand through her hair in an attempt to comb it out. She readjusted her clothes, heat still blooming all over her body, and they both turned to watch Barclay open the door. 

He stopped, a wide smile on his face as he looked between Strike and Robin, then saw the cartons of takeaway still clustered on the corner of the counter.

“Ah, you’re both here, then! That’s lucky, isn’ it? We’ll have a proper party!”


	3. Chapter 3

“It’s pourin’ out there,” continued Barclay cheerfully, striding past Robin and Strike and grabbing one of the takeaway cartons. 

Robin silently passed him a pair of chopsticks with a faint smile, while Strike hovered nearby like a grumpy thundercloud.

Barclay shoveled a mouthful of noodles into his mouth. 

“I’m glad you two’re here, though. Good to have some company on a night like this!”

Barclay looked between them, dawning awareness slowly spreading across his face. 

“I didn’ ...interrupt anything, did I?”

“No,” growled Strike unconvincingly, at the same time that Robin said, “No, of course not.”

Barclay swallowed, then slowly put the carton down. 

“I thought I’d kip here for the night, if that’s all right. Already called my wife to let her know.”

Strike looked at Robin, who nodded. He gusted a long-suffering sigh.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course, Sam.”

“Great! Thanks. Saves me tryin’ to blunder home in the dark.”

Robin, still trying to wrangle her scrambled senses together, looked at Strike, who gave her a rueful shrug and pushed a hand through his hair. The hand that a few minutes ago, had been a warm caress on her breast. Robin shivered. 

Barclay looked over. 

“You cold, Robin? Maybe we should rustle up some blankets.”

“I’ll get them. Upstairs,” said Strike, raising his eyebrows meaningfully at Robin. “I could use a hand.”

“Sure!” Barclay put down his carton and stood. “Show the way.” He walked past Robin, who suppressed a giggle at the look of sheer frustration that Strike threw at Barclay’s back. 

*****

Robin shifted again, listening to the distant sounds of traffic outside.

After a few rounds of cards and a long, friendly discussion of all their ongoing cases, Barclay had fallen fast asleep on the couch. 

Strike and Robin had looked at each other, then Strike had insisted she stay, and take his bed for the night. He had brought out his old cot and set it up in the office. There was a burst of purposeful momentum as they moved around the small office, getting blankets and transferring candles, Strike offering her his toothbrush in an oddly intimate moment. 

He had carefully avoided mentioning their earlier, heated exchange, and while Robin had felt the tension in the air, there was an unspoken agreement not to pour their feelings out in front of a snoring Barclay. 

Robin sighed, unable to sleep; she replayed the evening over and over, caught between frustration and excitement. It didn’t help that she had accepted his offer of one of his large cotton T-shirts to wear, and the tantalizing smell of him permeated both sense and thought.

She sat up more than once, swinging her legs over the side of the bed, determined to sneak to Strike’s office and wake him up, but she couldn’t bring herself to shake him awake only to...what? Ask him to navigate a complicated discussion about their feelings at two in the morning? Kiss him and run her hands all over his body? Inevitably, she curled herself back up in bed and continued to toss and turn.  
She sawed her legs together under the blankets, unable to keep from thinking of his tongue deep in her mouth, the feel of his erection, hard and insistent, against her body. 

A gentle knock on the door startled her out of her thoughts, and she heard Strike’s voice, deep and low on the other side.

“Robin?”

She sat up, heart hammering.

“I’m awake,” she croaked, then cleared her throat. “Come in.”

The door opened slowly, and Strike stepped in, then stayed in the doorframe. In the shifting, dim light, she could see that he was wearing a worn out T-shirt and soft sweatpants. 

“Did I wake you?” He held a torch loosely in his hand, but it was switched off.

“No. Can’t sleep.”

He chuckled.

“Neither can I.”

There was nothing but the sound of rain lashing against the windows. A car horn sounded in the distance. 

“Cormoran."

“Yeah?”

“Come here.”

He came and sat beside her, the bed sinking slightly with his weight, and she lay back down, painfully aware that she wore only his T-shirt and her knickers. It was a barrier, but a thrillingly flimsy one.  
She could sense him watching her, so she looked at him. He rubbed a large hand self-consciously down his jaw. They held each other’s gaze for a moment, and then they were reaching for each other, her hands pulling him down to her, his large frame settling against her side, his mouth warm and intent on hers.

They kissed, heat and delight sweeping through her, their hands mapping each other’s bodies, Strike groaning into her mouth as he cupped her breast through the thin shirt, an answering warmth blooming beneath his fingers.

His hand swooped down, brushing gently along the top of her knickers with a feather light touch. Her skin hummed as his fingers toyed with the hem, then Strike dipped his hand lower, cupping her over the wet fabric, and Robin gasped, her hips bucking up.

He shifted, pulling her backside against him with one hand. She ground herself against him, and he hissed in her ear while his other hand traveled low again, this time pressing his fingers right to the centre of her. Robin’s body jerked, and she moaned loudly into the dark, then blushed.

“Sorry,” she said.

“What the hell for?” Strike asked, his lips coasting her cheek. Then, his voice low against her neck,

“I’m going to make you moan again.”

His fingers pressed against her again, teasing the fabric and rolling it, sending warm bursts of need to Robin’s toes and fingertips. She moved herself flat onto her back, and their eyes met as this time, his palm smoothed past the hem of her underwear, hovering maddenly above her core; a question. She nodded, one hand grabbing onto his forearm. She was filled with heavy, aching desire, and she wanted, needed-

His fingers touched her slick heat, then his thumb found her clit and rubbed a tiny, slow circle. She gasped, thrusting her hips, seeking his touch as he rubbed faster; Robin reached up and grabbed a fistful of his hair, pulling him closer. She felt his restraint loosen and give; they were kissing hot and messy now, his own hips humping against her side. Pleasure was coursing through her; building and pushing against her skin, seeking release. Strike slipped a large finger inside her, and she whined with pleasure, her body arching eagerly up off the bed. He added another, she could feel the muscles in his arm flexing beneath her hand as he pumped his fingers in and out, still working her clit. 

She reached down between them and palmed his cock through his trousers, and he made a strangled noise at the back of his throat. 

They broke apart, realizing that they were close to crossing that final, invisible line. 

“Fuck,” Strike breathed, and Robin laughed, her heart racing. 

“Quite literally.”

They both chuckled, and his large palm came up and held her cheek.

“Robin, I-”

“Cormoran. I want this.”

She couldn’t make out his expression in the dim light, but she could sense his hesitation. 

“I’ve wanted this for a lot longer than I’ll admit, Ellacott,” he said, and kissed her lightly on the jaw. “But I didn’t imagine it like this.”

“During a power cut with Sam snoring downstairs, you mean?”

“Fucking Barclay,” said Strike mildly, and Robin chuckled again. They remained in comfortable silence.

Then she took a deep breath, sheer lust making her brave.

“But you _have_ imagined me in your bed.”

There was a beat of silence. 

“Yes.”

She sat up and slowly, deliberately took off his T-shirt, his burning gaze on her sending exhilaration sparkling across her skin. 

“And you’ve imagined me naked.”

Strike’s swallow was audible. 

“Yeah.”

She lay back down, looking up at him.

“What else did you imagine?” she asked, hardly believing her own daring but thrilling at it all the same, and he leaned his head down, trailing a row of scratching, light kisses from her lips to her breasts. 

“I imagined you like this,” he replied, and captured a nipple lightly between his teeth. Robin bit her lip and squirmed. 

“And I imagined doing this.”

He opened his mouth and sucked. 

Robin’s mouth fell open. He lifted his head.

“I said I’d light you up,” he said, his voice low. 

“I want you to.”

Then she was reaching for him, her hands were roaming over his shoulders, down the mat of chest hair, then back up and scratching down his back. They broke off long enough for a scrambled, awkward removal of his sweatpants, Robing helping tug them off, and then they were kissing again, desperately, and Strike flipped them again so she was straddled on top of him, rubbing herself against him with only her underwear between them. He arched his neck, his hands tight on her waist. 

“Christ, Robin, slow down-”

“I want you inside me,” she said breathlessly, and he groaned, his hips lifting. 

“Not helping.”

Her desire had crossed over into pure demand, and she rotated her hips, grinding against his cock. Strike swore, and fisted the sheets with one hand while stilling her hips with the other. 

“In the drawer of the nightstand-” he bit out through clenched teeth, and Robin reached over, grabbing a foil packet and opening it. She climbed off him, every nerve in her body protesting, and pulled off her knickers as he rolled the condom on. 

She was too desperate to tease him; she sank down onto him, pleasure blooming as her palms landed flat on his chest, her breath catching as she adjusted to the sensation of him filling her. 

“You feel so good,” he rasped, his own breath ragged, and she could only nod; the emotion and sensation tumbling through her too much to answer. She adjusted her knees on either side of him again, and his hands grabbed her backside, kneading. 

“I might’ve been dying to do this,” he confessed with a bit of a cheeky grin, and her giggle was cut off as he thrust his hips up, and then she began moving, rolling her hips, and they caught a rhythm, steady at first, then picking up speed, the feeling of him deep inside her a building cycle of pleasure.

She was panting in short, ragged breaths, and he moved his thumb to her clit again, rubbing gently. She could hear the sounds she was making, but the mounting promise of rapture was overriding everything else-

The pressure gave, Robin collapsing forward as light burst behind her eyes, dimly aware of him saying her name brokenly as he followed.

She lay on his chest, feeling the twitch of his cock subside. He was stroking her back with even, long sweeps of his hand, and Robin took a deep breath, inhaling the musky scent of him, his chest hair tickling her cheek. The rain continued to pound down. 

“All right, Ellacott?” he murmured, his voice low and sleepy.

She lifted her head and turned to face him, resting her chin on his chest. 

“Yeah. I’m thinking how power cuts might be my new favourite thing.”

He shook his head.

“Not mine.”

She laughed. 

“Oh? What’s yours, then?”

He gave her a tiny, adorable smile.

“You.”


End file.
